


Une balle, ta mort

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ana as Amelie's Mentor, Brainwashing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7794952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>True emotions had been taken from her, but a dull sort of impatience beat steadily in her chest.   The languid discontent of a caged predator gnawing on a chewtoy, longing to sink its teeth into real prey.  Prey that could fight back, apart from the stings of simulated shots.  </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Of all people to survive a shot from the Widow's Kiss, it had to be Ana Amari.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Une balle, ta mort

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the poor Ana AI I was practicing my frankly shameful sniping on tonight, which inspired this fic. 
> 
> This is my first shot at writing Widowmaker. She's a fascinating character, and I hope I did her justice!
> 
> Ana and Widow's exchanges, and Ana'a comic hint at the two knowing each other at least in passing; I took that and ran with it. I really like the idea of Ana having been Amélie's mentor in some capacity.

_I can outrun you, outshoot you, and most importantly, outthink you.  Know your place, girl._

Widowmaker stepped out of the training simulator, her face still stinging from the artificially-generated cold.  She slung her rifle over her shoulder, and rubbed her hands together.  The delicate joints of her fingers ached, and a dull pain throbbed through the rest of her body.  It had taken time to perfect her performance in the cold; her unique condition made her more susceptible to the temperature change.

The snowy metal complex of the simulation, and the discomfort that brought, were the last things on her mind.

All she could see in her mind’s eye were the cool amber eyes of her simulated opponent.  Too-clever eyes, tracking her through the snow; the sharp crack of shots breaking the muffled quiet.  Her opponent approached from a thousand different angles, with a thousand different chances to try and get the drop on Widowmaker.

The AI was clever, and had it been a true firefight, Widowmaker would not have escaped without injury.  As it was, each shot that met its mark was only a slight sting. The exercise was more aimed to keep her aim sharp.  There was Talon fodder for more deadly games.

The AI was cleverly programned, but Widowmaker’s whole existence had been whittled down to perfect shots.  Focus counted for so much in her profession, and her focus was perfect.  Always.

Almost always.

Again and again, Widowmaker had killed Ana Amari. She had watched her old mentor scuttle across the snow, the blue of her Overwatch uniform marking her as an easy target.  Again and again, Ana swung up her rifle to retaliate, a second too late.  Artificial blood soaked the artificial snow.

It was remarkable how quickly she tired of seeing Ana’s head reduced to fragments of bone and blood.

True emotions had been taken from her, but a dull sort of impatience beat steadily in her chest.   The languid discontent of a caged predator gnawing on a chewtoy, longing to sink its teeth into real prey.  Prey that could fight back, apart from the stings of simulated shots.  

Widowmaker ran a finger over the simulator’s control panel, and gave the stats of her performance a perfunctory glance.  Poor, compared to previous simulations; she had exposed herself far too much, and taken too many of the enemy’s shots in pursuit of her own kills.

_Too-clever by half.  That’s what you are, foolish girl._

She shook her head, once precise, irritable gesture to block the thoughts away.  They were pointless.  As always, she longed to be let off her chain.  Planning for future targets was a worthwhile exercise, but the past had little bearing on anything she was doing now.  

It was irritating, how the thoughts bled through; pointless bits of information devoid of any connection, and memories that felt flat and gray.  They circled around her head unbidden when she was left idle, and became a constant, mild annoyance.  It was hard to imagine that she had ever been such a dull, gray creature.

The woman Ana Amari had chided was no more. She was not Ana’s student any longer. Ana Amari was a ghost, the shell of an age long past, while Widowmaker had only recently come into her own.  She had read Reaper’s report, and seen the photos; Ana was a fraction of the woman she had been before, robbed of her best eye, robbed of her vitality, robbed of her will to kill.

An old, broken bird that would one day fumble its way into a spider’s web.

It was disappointing that Talon’s tech had yet to update the simulations accordingly.  The Ana who crept across the artificial snow was the Ana of years past, with long, flowing black hair and a jaunty cap, her eyes glowing with sharp determination as she raised her rifle…

Perhaps that was why she thought she heard Ana’s voice for a moment, just a whisper amidst the flutter of snow as the sharp jolt of a simulated sniper shot cut into her chest.

_Learn from pain._

The holograms had no voice, aside from noises of pain and dying screams.  They were just a collection of unsophisticated programs, with fighting styles tweaked to match their images through a series of predetermined patterns of behavior.  Ana’s hologram was programmed to be cautious, and an immaculate shot.  Still, the programs weren’t perfect.  The real Ana, in her heyday, would have made far more of those shots.

“Done breaking your toys?”

The rasping growl should have been proceeded by heavy footsteps, but Widowmaker had allowed herself to become distracted. Unacceptable.  She lifted her head, showing no signs of surprise, but didn’t turn around.

“Mercenary,” she said.   “I tire of these games.  Perhaps you would like to borrow my simulator?  Your shooting always has been rather… haphazard, but I fear you are getting sloppy of late.”

The little growl didn’t offer her close to the same satisfaction as a real kill, but at least it didn’t bore her.  Reaper was dangerous.  She could parse that even from the dull, flat memories of before. He was not just raw power; he was cunning too, always steps ahead of his opponents.  But like Ana, his edge had been blunted by age, and emotions.  

And he was not so clever as a spider.

“I wondered if the news would have any effect on you, spider,” he said, leaning over her shoulder to look at the numbers displayed on the screen.  “Ana Amari was your mentor.”  A rank odor clung to him, like something that had been left to rot.  

She shifted to be a bit further from him, a vague sense of disgust creeping up her spine.  Whoever had killed Reaper had done it badly; something that could have been a masterpiece had been thoroughly botched, leaving this ill-tempered, rotting shadow that could never reclaim the glory that it had once called its own.

“An overstatement,” she purred, forcing her thoughts from the kill.  Reaper was an ally, and a thing already dead.  There would be no thrill in hunting him, but he had proven to be a pleasing hunting partner before.  “My talents were never associated with Overwatch.”

_Steady your hands, girl.  Slow that eager pulse of yours.  If it is justice, let it be done, and think no more on it._

My hands are steadier than ever, Ana, she thought. Could you say the same for yours?

No.  By all accounts, the sniper had let her fears consume her.  Widowmaker had broken her, stolen her perfect aim, and made her turn tail and abandon her beloved comrades.  

By all measurements, she had won that battle.

Her victory had always been marred by Ana’s shot, the one that had almost made her the prey.  But Ana had fallen prey to emotions, like she always warned against, and hesitated.  The worst mistake a sniper could make, the first lesson Ana had drilled into her again and again.  Widowmaker could taste the frustration of her old self in her mouth like sand, the bitter taste of being a soldier scolded like a child.

How silly she had been back then.  Ana’s advice was good.  She had taken it to heart, and surpassed Ana.

But Ana was not dead.  What had been a near-perfect death, the fall of a legend, was now just a botched mission.

Widowmaker was sick of dealing with ghosts.

She realized Reaper had been talking.  It was too easy to tune his voice out, sometimes.

“… and she took you under her wing because of that. She wouldn’t be paired with a subpar sniper.  I remember how you frustrated her.”

Reaper’s voice was almost… fond.  It made Widowmaker’s skin crawl.  Sometimes she forgot that the mercenary was not truly like her, devoid of all emotions that could cause error, because they shared similar, visceral enjoyment of the kill.  

“Amari taught me many useful things,” Widowmaker said, turning her head to meet Reaper’s gaze.  She smiled.  “There’s no shame in admitting one’s past associations, mon petit.  I was not associated with Overwatch, not truly; I was merely on loan from the French government.  It was…”

The air left her for a moment, and her steady pulse fluttered.  

She covered the lapse with a cough.  Reaper’s eyes followed her from behind the mask.

“… Gerard.  He was the one who was a member of Overwatch.”

Gerard.  Her perfect, imperfect kill.  Back when her pulse could still beat painfully against her ribs, when her hands could still shake.  If she were handed that job today, she would have gone about things very differently. But it was still such a vivid memory. One of the precious few moments when color had flooded back into her life, when she felt alive.

The beginning of her story.  That was what he was.  The beginning.

  “Right,” Reaper said.  Infuriating, how that mask of his could convey so much and so little.

“I merely want to be prepared for when we are sent to kill her,” Widowmaker said.

“We wouldn’t have to worry about it, if you hadn’t botched the job last time, Amélie.”

That name.  

He was trying to get a rise from her.

She had crossed paths with him before, and he had had the same quality then.  Always seeking weakness, always pressing buttons, twisting and tearing people into the forms that served him best.

“You are the one who failed to kill her most recently, Reyes,” Widowmaker said, stepping away from the screen of simulator results.  

He stiffened, whipping around.  “So you do remember me.”

“My memory is undamaged,” she said, setting her rifle down on one of the equipment tables, and beginning to strip it to clean.  

“You’ve never called me that name before.”

“It is unimportant.  You are Reaper; I am Widowmaker.  It would be crude to imply we were anything else.”  Her hands stilled for a moment.  “Do not call me Amélie again.”

“You sure you there aren’t any feelings lingering in that head of yours?” Reaper said.  “You spent hours in there, running that simulation.”

Irritation crept its way into Widowmaker’s voice.  “Ana Amari is a job left undone.  There’s no art in failure, and I will not make the same mistake twice.”

 _One slip, and you’re dead, girl.  Une balle, ta mort._  Ana’s French was heavily accented, but graceful.

One bullet, your death.

She could hear the blast, feel the sharp shock as Ana’s bullet sent her reeling backwards, plastic and glass shards digging into her exposed face.  The shot had saved Widowmaker’s life.

One perfect shot, and it had almost been Ana’s undoing.

This time, there would be no almost.

Ana Amari was a thing of the past.

“I have to attend a briefing for my next mission,” Widowmaker said, reassembling Widow’s Kiss, and slinging it over her should.  “Have the techs recalibrate Amari’s image to match her current appearance.  I know you know her new face best.”

She stalked out of the room.

 _Know your place, old woman._    


End file.
